


beware the patient woman

by princess_of_rebels



Series: hydrogen & helium [3]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, Alternate Universe - Witchcraft, Body Horror, Canon Lesbian Character, Dark Magic, Death, Demon Summoning, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Mutual Pining, Problematic Relationships, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Revenge, Urban Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-07
Updated: 2020-03-07
Packaged: 2021-02-22 16:13:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22952254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princess_of_rebels/pseuds/princess_of_rebels
Summary: It starts harmless enough, a simple ritual to summon a creature of twilight in her path to get closer to her goal. Except that a much more powerful being decides to intervene and ruin all her careful planning. The worst part? This demon - who, unfortunately, happens to be quite the gorgeous woman - does not intend to leave her alone. At all.
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Female Character
Series: hydrogen & helium [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1360399
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	beware the patient woman

_cause i am, i am a little wicked_

_i am, yes, i am_

_hands red, hands red just like he said_

_i am a little wicked_

**a little wicked; valerie broussard**

The orb of fire, thousands of miles away and forever out of reach, hovers barely inches over the edge of the horizon as if to taunt her, drawing out the inevitable cycle of day and night, sky filled with brilliant colors which flood the apartment and, yet, she has to wait. A creature of twilight is best summoned at twilight, after all. Perhaps she could pull it off regardless of time, but she prides herself in being careful. The very proof is that she sits here, breathing, still alive.

She checks the chalk markings on the floor again, comparing them to the ones in ink on the page of the book she holds, then sternly glancing at the circle of lit candles. Only then the sun starts sinking.

Finally.

Sacrilegia swallows, reciting the words: they taste strange on her tongue, sit there uncomfortably like a new language she hasn’t mastered, sulfur and blood burning down her throat, tightly coiling in her stomach while they draw on her magic. It is supposed to be a slow and steady flow, a river barely worth being called river – but she fights for control, grinding her teeth, nerves raw as something digs into her very core and tears at her, ripping into her composure with long claws.

There is nothing worse than a spell going haywire, mostly due to how she lacks options to contain the result. (She knows what she could bring out, if she let go of her reign on her mind, if she let the deepest darkness roam freely, but there is a good chance she would burn herself out, so she does not.)

Forcefully, she bites the tip of her tongue, focusing on the words alone. There is something reaching for the mental walls she has built, attempting to tear them down, _she is not going to let that happen_.

The sensation subsides as the incantation ends, leaving her mouth filled with a bitter taste, lingering in the air for the fraction of a second. Magic travels along her skin and down her spine, comparable to an electric current, except that she thinks she could have preferred an electric current. It would not make her feel as if all the particles which make up her body decompose.

Night arrives, casting its long shadows. The flames burst, scorching the ceiling, smoke fills the room, she coughs. There is too much of it, she cannot see, it does not disperse when it should; she left the windows open for a reason.

Her pulse quickens and she holds her breath, with her heart in her throat, every single spell she knows ready to leap from her lips; it aches knowing there is only so much she can do. She is a witch, one which no greater source of power cares to give much more than a drop.

Her sight clears.

In front of her stands a demon, who happens to be the most gorgeous woman she has ever seen. Not good. Not good at all.

Sacrilegia cannot say what tips her off, something between common sense and a gut feeling, something screaming at her that this is wrong and an instinct telling her to run, and yet she is painfully aware that she will regret turning her back to this being.

There is nothing in particular she notices at first, because she notices all at once: deep-red hair caught in a messy bun that makes her want to untangle it, a pair of black horns arching upwards from the side of her skull before they turn half a circle, ending sharply, tanned skin, eyes with no definite color, full lips in an alluring pink that would do well on her neck, a lean body, white lace cupping breasts, torn jeans exposing the insides of her thighs, black boots, golden jewelry in the form of several necklaces floating down her chest, earrings and piercings, rings and bracelets.

Everything about her is tempting, in the way that makes her breath hitch in her throat and her fingers twitch, before she can regain control over herself.

“You’re no creature of twilight,” Sacrilegia says with a frown, wondering where she went wrong.

The woman smiles an unholy, devilish smile, split tongue darting across her lips. “No,” she replies with a cheerful hum.

“Then leave,” she replies briskly. “I have no business with you.”

“That’s rude. You’re not even going to take me out for coffee?”

“And, frankly,” she adds with a glare that does little to intimidate, “I have no interest in dealing with you either, considering all you seem to know are pleasures.”

“You’re not even trying.” For a brief moment, the demon’s eyes are yellow, before she crosses her arms. “Do you know how many people would kill to meet me?”

“Then why do you insist on bothering me?” Sacrilegia asks as she flips through the pages of the book in her lap. “I have not called you. I have not made any attempt to contact you. Stop complaining.”

_How to Deal with Unwanted Guests_ , the title reads. Satisfied, she taps with her finger against the page, skimming the given solutions.

“Perhaps you have not yet realized that I’m doing you a favor here,” the woman says, so sure of herself.

“Perhaps you have simply not yet realized that your little tricks are not working on me,” Sacrilegia replies without even looking up. “Leave.”

A hellish gaze burns down on her. No, that has not worked.

Next, she tries a prayer to ward off evil spirits. Nothing either, except her skin is crawling with an unknown sensation.

She leans to her right and snatches a bowl from the ground and lights the herbs in it.

“Sage? Really?” The demon rolls her eyes with a dramatic sigh. “I was expecting more from you.”

“Such high expectations,” she commends, sarcasm dripping from her words. “Why do you not take them and apply them to yourself?”

The woman laughs and she hates admitting that it is a nice laugh, but everything about her screams pleasure so clearly, it can only be a scam, a game, her very nature. She has conversed with enough non-human beings to know that all of them have an agenda: fae and demons and spirits and serpents and angels and werewolves and djinn and vampires, _everything_ – her point being, she is too smart to let herself get fooled by it.

Her intellect has saved her countless time. She imagines it will keep doing so, if she keeps being careful, which she intends to be, no matter how pretty that laugh is, no matter how her heart has yet to find its normal pace again, no matter how much she wants to reach out and forget. All just a scheme.

Back to the question at hand – what other options does she have? She is not going to ask anyone for help, even if there was anyone who would help; a banishing circle might do it, or maybe all she needs is power, a lot of power, or something like a catalyst to amplify her own. However, she would have to leave her apartment and currently she is not sure whether she would come back to the complex still standing.

“You don’t know who I am, do you?” the demon asks, eyes flashing in a bright; Sacrilegia thinks she will get lost in the millions of colors if she stares for too long, or maybe the jewelry will be her undoing, tempting her to wrap it around her fingers and following where it leads her.

“If I cared, I would have asked by now,” she returns flatly, leaning back to study the woman. Her educated guess is Succubus or any other demon of pleasure, perhaps also one of desire or temptation. They are not all the same, after all. Pleasure usually comes in the form of a beautiful woman for her, Desire promises her knowledge no ordinary creature could ever attain, Temptation dangles revenge from its mouth, telling her about a hundred ways to kill angels.

A smirk spreads across her lips and the demon looks down on her with an infernal gaze. “Are you sure about that?” she asks in an amused tone, tilting her head to one side. It is surprising the horns do not mess with her balance. “I could give you everything you can and can’t imagine.”

“I have no interest in deals,” Sacrilegia tells her, unmoved.

“Then what could a woman like you want?” she asks, tapping a finger that reminds her more of a claw against her chin, watching her like a predator just waiting for the right moment to strike, but she fails to feel like prey in this scenario. After all, she knows she is not, she might be a predator herself, if she cared about meaningless human metaphors, but she does not, so it does not matter.

“Nothing,” she answers, realizing that she is getting annoyed. “How often do I have to keep telling you that until you understand that there is literally nothing I want from you?”

“I’ve been hearing some things about you,” the woman continues, ignoring her, “mainly, that you’ve been summoning quite a lot of beings, which have been telling me about a witch of great wits, never really asking for something. Strange, don’t you think?”

She bristles, for a moment, frowning. Perhaps she has overdone it, if it starts getting noticed. It is the last thing she wants – attention –, since it always ends badly for someone with her goals. Besides, she has enough enemies as it is. “So you have come all this way to tell me that you want me to stop summoning demons?”

“Normally,” she remarks brightly, “I’m the one asking that question. And, normally, the answer is ‘no’.”

Sacrilegia rolls her eyes.

“But, as far as I’m aware, you can’t summon anything else why I’m here, right?”

“That was not an answer.”

“Neither was that,” the woman returns with a sly smile, “it would be ‘no’ regardless, yes? Humans. Always getting ahead of themselves.”

“What makes you think I am human?” she returns and allows herself a cold smile, blinking slowly in response to the fraction of a millisecond surprise. There is satisfaction in catching her off guard.

“Interesting,” she hums, “I don’t suppose you’re inclined to elaborate?”

“As much as you are inclined to leave,” Sacrilegia replies, tilting her head as she turns over new and old options in her head, hoping to find something. Anything at this point. Truth is, she needs to get rid of her rather sooner than later, before she slips up or she absolutely _needs_ to leave her apartment.

Again, the woman laughs, something intoxicating about it like a drug, and she is sure that it is just an impression, a stupid little imagine her mind conjures up to mess with her, except … that it might not be that much of a coincidence. Which would mean that she is dealing with a high-ranking demon, who she certainly did _not_ try to summon, and she has been extremely careful not to draw the attention of such a creature, so why is she stuck in this situation? If she truly is and this is not some game to lead her believe she is. Not that she will ask; she is above that.

Silence settles in as the night smothers the buzz of the city, the candles’ wax drips to the floor, the gold gives off a soft shine, like small starts, and the horns seem to collect the darkness.

Demons. So very predictable and obvious, so very much the thing she has come to anticipate. Showoffs. Arrogant. They think they are so much better than anyone else. _Just like angels do_.

The woman bares sharp teeth in response and Sacrilegia only smile at her. So she is attempting to read her thoughts. Good. Well, not entirely, as it is evidence to support her theory of facing a greater threat but keeping her mental walls up is what she does regardless. One can never be too cautious with these things.

“I do hope for your health that you’re aware how little your scribble means to me,” she says then, when the night has reached its peak; she appears even more gorgeous now, even less human. “I could just step out of it, if I wanted to.”

“Sure,” she says, voice conveying how little she believes her, “it’s not like I have never heard empty threats before. If a circle like that cannot contain you, why are you still inside?”

“I wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable,” she replies with a wide, sharp-toothed grin that makes her doubt it is a lie. And yet, without concrete proof, she is not going to simply believe it is either. What would make such a powerful being take interest in her? There is one thing that might, but she has made sure not to leave a trace of it, not to mention it, not to even think about it. No one must know what she has already attempted in her ambition and intends to repeat with better success.

“Now, assuming you are telling the truth,” Sacrilegia says and studies her again, “pray tell, what does someone like you want with me? I am not convinced it is simply curiosity.”

“You’ve made an impression,” the woman answers with a hum, all sharp teeth and horns and claws. “I was thinking I’d have a rebellion on my hands soon enough, when you managed to make an impression on higher demons. Yet, I discover that my charms don’t work on you. Can you blame me for wanting to find out why?”

“I can,” she returns with a scoff, leaning forward to pop the joints in her back. Sitting on the floor is becoming uncomfortable enough that she thinks about getting up, if that would not include turning her eyes from the demon for even a split second.

“I am Lilith,” the woman says, “Queen of Hell. Are you sure _that’s_ the conversation you want to be having?” A smile parts her lips, pink tongue darting out, and Sacrilegia realizes, startled, that she does not doubt that this is Lilith, the very first demon, the very first human who turned on God. And she realizes that perhaps some fear or panic should be in order, anything else than mere annoyance, but she cannot bring herself to feel something that does not exist.

“We could also have no conversation at all, if you gave up being stubborn,” she replies, returning the hellish gaze unmoved.

“I could say the same about you,” Lilith says and crosses her arms. “Nothing you want at all? No pleasure you have yet to satisfy? I know a lot about satisfaction.” Another smile, suggestive, a force compelling her to let her eyes travel and loose herself in the thoughts planted in her mind by a hunger.

“How hard is it for your kind to accept an answer?” she wonders out loud instead, with another glare that will do nothing.

“Demons know a lie when they hear one,” the woman retorts. “There _is_ something you want.”

“Have you considered that it is something I need to achieve out of my own power for it to mean something?” It is the truth, accomplishing her goal is meaningless if she takes a deal to do so. How is she supposed to become powerful and immortal with no soul? It is how all her magic happens and she would hate to be at someone’s whims.

Leaving Lilith to considerate or whatever it is she does, she returns her attention to the book again. There is a good chance it might be entirely useless to her now that the Queen of Hell has decided to ruin all her work, but … no, it is most certainly completely useless, because there is nothing in existence that could make someone of her power leave, but she is sick of arguing and talking in circles, she is sick of giving her attention so she can play her stupid little game.

The demon sighs but she does not look up, does not so much as acknowledge it at all; the severity of the situation sinks in, curses collect on her tongue, what should she do? How can she get out of this without risking another death?

Her gut twists. Electricity fills the air. Her heart stops, a shudder races from her scalp down her spine. No time for a spell. Luckily, this one works without spoken words.

“I don’t like being ignored,” Lilith tells her, nails digging into her skin as she tilts her head up by the chin, eyes burning like a sulfur fire.

Sweat covers the palms of her hands, the leather of her gloves stretching tightly over her knuckles, due to the jarring difference in power; Sacrilegia is no match to her, even if she had all the time in the world to prepare and gather, she is meaningless compared to this woman and it hurts her pride more than she cares to admit.

“Then either find someone to bother who is not ignoring you or get used to it,” she hisses in return, the blade of the sword she holds pressed against her skin. Probably not her smartest move, but she starts to think that there is not anything she could do this woman would consider ‘smart’ and she finds that she does not care; if her gut tells her she is in danger, she listens.

She smiles, barely inches from her face. Up close, she smells like smoke and fire and something else that is not quite blood or the burn of alcohol and something that is neither of those things. “I like you,” she says.

“I do not like you,” Sacrilegia answers and swallows, calm settling over her. Panic will follow shortly after; she dislikes being touched.

“We can fix that,” Lilith murmurs. Heat emits from her hand, burning right through to her bones, never intending to leave.

All Sacrilegia wants to do is cut into her skin, even if it is just a statement made in spite. She is no toy, she is not going to let herself be treated like she does not know what she is doing because she has not been around since the creation of humankind or because she does not hold any special powers – she only has her sharp mind and her ambition, her dedication and a drive, which is more than what can be said about most.

“I will not do anything with you,” she says and presses her sword into that perfect skin. “And I will make you leave.”

Lilith laughs and lets go of her, leaning back; she drags a finger over the small cut on the side of her throat that has already healed again, dark blood clinging to it. A split tongue licks it off suggestively, causing her to roll her eyes once more.

“I’d like to see you try,” she says with an amused smile.

She considers stabbing her again or throwing the tome in her lap at her, just to make her point clear, but ultimately decides not to.

* * *

She spends the whole night pulling books from her shelves and flipping through them, searching for a hint to resolve this situation, despite knowing that she will not find any. How many people have been stuck in the very same mess she has? Very little, she wagers, so she is just doing something that she does not have to keep paying attention to Lilith or admit defeat yet.

Sometimes, a thought tumbles through the words she reads in foreign languages, and it is, without fail, a scary thought: there is no reason to plan ahead, to stock up, to acquire any meaningful help. It would not safe her. Nothing can safe her now, nothing short of a miracle that is, and she knows how they work for her; she has to make them herself. (Truth is, though, that she knows all the right spells to defend herself, read them in books that have long fallen apart, stole them from holy lips, picked them from forbidden trees, but they would tear her apart the moment they leave her. She cannot, for the dear life of her, muster enough power to curse the land itself or turn blood boiling or coax the horrors buried in the world to serve her will. All her power was needed to resurrect herself.)

The demon has stopped bugging her, questioning her, just generally annoying her, eventually roaming around the apartment doing something Sacrilegia cares very little about. After all, it is not like she could stop her, even if she tried, is it?

The next time she pays attention to the sky, it is bathed in all shades of red and yellow again. She has spent the entire night searching for a solution for the problem that slithers up to her again, clawed hand closing around her waist.

She swallows and stills her mind.

“Doesn’t seem like you’ve kept your promise,” Lilith muses, so close that she can nearly physically feel her smile. “Shame.”

“What makes you think I have given up?” Sacrilegia returns, staring into the rising sun before she winds herself from the grip, ignoring the distant longing settling in the back of her head.

The Queen of Hell smiles sweetly. “I’ll be sure to keep watching you then,” she says. She looks different now, more human in the strangest of ways but no less terrifying or gorgeous either, which is a problem. Everything about that woman is.

“What do you want from me?” she asks and crosses her arms, suddenly all too aware of the gloves and long sleeved turtleneck and the pants; she is suddenly all too aware of how much effort she puts into hiding every inch of skin to make herself forget that she was struck down by heavenly wrath once. (But there is no forgetting, there is never a day where she does not know; she has been dead once and returned and now all of Heaven is after her. The latter does not bother her. The former does. A lot.)

Another smile. A dangerous one, this time. “I was curious,” she replies but it sounds too much like a lie. “Besides, you’re just my type.”

She scowls; this reason doesn’t seem entirely sound to her either but that is on her. Expecting the truth from a demon, the Queen of Hell. Shaking her head, she pushes past her, slipping on a pair of shoes and putting on a jacket.

“Where are you going?” Lilith asks, watching her, appearing a little upset about being ignored and Sacrilegia cannot say she does not take at least some mild pleasure in that.

“None of your business,” she returns with a glare that does little to get her points across. Usually, it does. Usually, she is not dealing with powerful entities.

“Maybe try not to burn down the whole building,” she tells her, making a vague gesture referring to everything surrounding them, “or, maybe, just do not do anything at all.”

“But that’s boring.”

“Not my problem,” Sacrilegia answers, “you decided to stick around, so deal with the consequences.” She shuts the door in her face, nearly slamming it, letting out a breath she has not known she has held. There is a reason she hates dealing with others. And, naturally, if Lilith feels insulted now, a closed door is not going to stop her from demanding retribution but since she yet has to experience that, she thinks herself safe. For now.

The narrow hallway is barely lit at this early time and it reeks, so full of the stench of the city that it makes her sick, plastic and chemicals everywhere, humans; she is not terribly fond of them but she does not hate them either, it is just that she is not one of them and that she starts resenting her mortal skin and her lack of power, it is that she is supposed to be where magic is wild and untamed, but she is bound to stick to power lines if she wants to be able to defend herself.

She shoves her hands into the pockets of her jacket, descending the stairs within a couple of minutes and steps outside. The sun pulls itself up against the skyscrapers and buildings, the metal and steel and glass, all so disgusting she cannot help her stomach turning.

Her shoulders tense the more the further she steps away from the apartment building, expecting an explosion or fire or just _something_ to swallow everything behind her. It does not come.

She ducks her head and vanishes between thousands of humans going about their daily lives; she tugs at the power lines beneath her feet and finds that they only sluggishly respond to her call, trickling like a river close to drying out when she can tell they are more of an ocean. Perhaps this is the true price she paid for playing with forces well above her own, tearing at the fabric the very world is made off, dipping into creational forces to resurrect herself: nothing else will do now, nothing else will give her anything.

It is easier bear knowing what she has to do to undo it, it requires getting inside Eden, it requires not being caught. And she will, oh, she will, and then she will pluck these angels from their high heavens and tear out their wings and crush their halos.

Sacrilegia swallows her anger and reminds herself to stay calm, no use getting angry now before she has met her goals. Even then anger would be her downfall: her wrath and hunger for revenge, her desire to force the blade of her sword through this one angel’s heart and see his fire vanish – fury only blinds her.

The longer she walks, the easier it gets to relax, until, eventually, she gives up on all the tension. Not the annoyance though. Definitely not the annoyance.

She enters one of the run-down shops at the side of the street; they all look full, goods no one ever seems to buy piling on every surface, and she has never seen anyone enter unless she has specifically looked for them.

Holding her breath, she opens the door; there is a bell jiggling over the entrance, but no one turns to look at her, the room is filled with the smell and taste of magic, all so very different and all so very fake, for the most part.

The fewest of these items are real, the fewest of them actually do anything, but there are always people to trick and deceive, which is apparently much more of a profitable business than most think.

Someone is watching her or, rather, _something_ , a single eye hovering in the air or a book or a spell without tangible form to begin with. She shrugs it off, there is always someone watching. (She has nearly forgotten what it feels like to be undisturbed and meaningless; now she is branded, her skin made out of dust and ash, and everyone who looks at her knows that she has paid the price for her ambition and that she would do it again in a heartbeat.)

Sacrilegia picks up a book about demons, loaded with negative energy, hatred and zeal and all other sins, the lust for blood; it is heavy in her hands and it is tearing at her mind, attempting to take it over, but she simply pulls up her mental walls and it stops. As expected, she finds numerous rituals to summon archdemons or even Lucifer himself – she looks at the requirements and wonders if Lilith will demand any of them –, but no way to get rid of them.

With a sigh, she puts it back, drifting towards the enchanted tokens, meaning, most of them harbor just the tiniest spark of magic, more of pretty little trinkets than anything else.

There is nothing helpful to find here, she is just stalling and, as much as she hates admitting it, running. Running from how powerless she is and from the hatred it sparks, from the constant reminder that it does not matter how smart she is, from the knowledge that everything would be different if she had managed to snatch one more fruit.

“Trouble?” a soft voice asks and she looks up to find Horatio next to her, as silent as always. He is nearly a ghost himself, she often thinks he has forgotten how to be human between all those he speaks for and helps into the afterlife, if they let him.

“None of your business,” she tells him, not meanly but decisively; she has no interest in becoming friendly with other people. It is not about attachment. None of them fit her ambition or contribute to her goal, so they are wasted time. Besides, she is not one of them. They must not know.

“If you lay waste to the city in the process, it is,” he replies, dark eyes wandering; has his hair gone white from all the stress he has endured or has it always been? She wonders. His dark skin has not fallen yet.

“I did not do anything,” she replies truthfully, conversation finished. Not for him, but he seems to realize that she does not play by mortal rules and leaves her alone. She spends another moment looking around, running her fingers along amulets and charms from times long forgotten, magic tingling under her fingertips. Nothing compares to the electric feeling in the air, magic racing down her spine, the taste on her tongue.

Silently, she slips out of the shop, bell chiming. The feeling of being watched does not subside.

Her way does not lead her right home, for several reasons, the main one being that she does not care to find out what the Queen of Hell does in her spare time when there is no one around to annoy.

Instead, she pays the nearby farmers’ market a visit; she misses nature. And, while she does experience hunger, processed foods do not agree with her. It is funny, she always figured it did not matter, since she is not that different from most creatures. (She is no human, no angel, no demon, nothing in between, so what does that make her?)

She wanders, ignoring the people calling out to her, wanting to sell her something; she knows she is not going to find anything special either, and it does seem incredibly ironic that she always gravitates towards the apples most, even if their taste rarely compares to the she had in Eden and, oh, how she longs for another bite of it. Another forbidden fruit, another fill of forbidden knowledge that could send the whole of Heaven crumbling down.

She weighs one apple against another, studying the colors in the sparse sun light, not as brilliant, not as right, not good enough. A terrible situation it is, indeed, to be doomed to experience imperfection every single time after you have tasted perfection.

Sacrilegia has nearly decided which to buy when someone steps next to her, radiating anger, their grip on magic loosely enough to let her feel they are more powerful than she is, that they will not hesitate to resort to violence. Oh, the idiocy. Violence does little to threaten intellect.

“Save your breath,” she says, not bothering to look up, “but, then again, you never do.”

“You should have left a long time ago.” The snarl comes out not quite human, tainted with something that has never been anything close to human, but the vocal cords still are.

“Perhaps you should have, if you worry so greatly,” she returns, unimpressed, picking up two more fruits before stepping into the line forming at the registry where the farmer makes idle small talk with one of the regulars.

“You can’t just do whatever you want,” they say, two voices, an angry spirit and an arrogant human. It would be tragic, were they not an ironic symbol for humanity.

“Oh, but I can,” she replies, and picks crumbled bills from her pockets. There is a hiss of wind, a sharp gust, and then she is alone, the city bustling around her.

She pays and makes the track back to her apartment, taking her time; no point in hurrying when you have Hell waiting for you.

* * *

It is already past noon when she climbs up the stairs again, muscles straining as she has not rested them yet, it is the final bit of stalling she can do. A feeling of displeasure settles in her stomach, heavy, sinking its teeth into her flesh, if only metaphorically.

She unlocks the door to her apartment with a set of keys, entering, bracing herself for whatever is to come.

Well, at least the building is still standing. And the room does not immediately cave in on itself when she steps inside. In fact, it looks pretty much like it has this morning, except that she finds the floor clear of chalk and candles. The smell of smoke and something burned has been replaced by something else.

She takes off her shoes and slips out of her jacket, turning around the corner of the hallway that gives way to the kitchen – it is still there. Just like Lilith is. She looks different, a whole lot more human; the night is her time, her element, and it is the middle of the day. Her hair is shorter, her horns smaller, you could mistake her for a human, if you let yourself be blinded by a bit of magic, yet, to her, everything about her still screams demon. Or whatever she is; human, demon, the Queen of Hell, the very first woman, she is everything she wants to be.

She looks up, eye color still steadily shifting as if it is the one thing she cannot bring herself to change. A smile appears on her face. “Do you like it?”

Sacrilegia frowns. “What? You? Not any more than I did yesterday.”

She scoffs and rolls her eyes. “What about the food then?” The smile lingers dangerously.

Her gaze falls to the pot on the stove, its content bubbling with something not entirely harmless by nature, if she were to hazard a guess. In a strange way, it _does_ smell like food, but nothing she can put into words, nothing she has ever experienced.

“I think I am not interested in finding out,” she replies, setting the apples on the counter, not missing the amused smile crossing the demon’s face. She pretends she has missed it. It is easier that way.

“You humans have to eat though, right?” she asks, something victorious about it, and the old beast rears its ugly head, hissing, baring its teeth; perhaps that is her intention all along, to rile her up, make her angry, make her careless. Usually, she would not fall for it, not give in, but she is sick and tired of it and, in all honesty, she does not _care_.

“What has you so convinced I was born from a woman’s womb and have not sprung into existence from a burst of creation?” she asks coyly, arching an eyebrow at the woman who looks at her in bewilderment, then studying her curiously, eyes lighting up in a deep green.

“So?” Her voice is a purr, making her think telling her has been an even greater mistake than she has anticipated.

The room fills with tension, not quite electricity this time, hanging onto the ends of her nerves and the tip of her tongue, tingling down her spine; there is not enough air to breathe and she wonders if she has to breathe at all. The sudden silence does not improve it, in fact, it worsens it, there is something about it that makes phrasing her thoughts harder, something weighting down on her mind, trying to put cracks into the walls she has put up to keep people out of her head.

Sacrilegia swallows, breathes, forces her pulse to slow to an acceptable level. The pressure lifts, if only for now; she is playing with hellfire here and she is determined to keep all of her limbs. She has kept them after toying with heavenly fire, after all.

“Well,” the woman says, sly smile on her lips, tongue darting out as if to tempt her but nothing has been a greater temptation than the fruit she desires above all else just out of her reach, flaming swords pointed at her, “won’t do me a favor then?”

“And give you a chance to poison me?”

“I would never poison you, dear,” Lilith says in a way that does not make her trust her any more than she already does, which means, not at all. “You’re too interesting.”

Wordlessly, she turns around, no point in arguing, she is just wasting her time and giving a demon exactly what it wants. There is no reason to give in to pointless provocation with the intention of proving a point. Lilith is as old as humanity itself, the only thing that can make her change her mind is herself.

“So, did you find a way to get rid of me yet?” she asks gleefully, taunting her to get to her pride.

“I will,” Sacrilegia replies, settling into a chair.

“I’m sure you will,” the demon says smoothly, “but don’t you think it’s going to get boring to pretend you’re getting closer to your goal when it takes an eternity?”

This time, she bites her tongue; the worst about it all is that they both know that she is right, that she does not hold enough power to banish her – she has the knowledge, she has the possibility of stringing together spells that turn to dust on her lips, but what point is there when she cannot give them power?

It is so very frustrating; she could have done that, if she had not have to resurrect herself, or perhaps she could still do it if she had reached for that last fruit regardless. She would be the most terrifying enemy to all of creation. But she has been cautious one time too often and this is the price she pays.

She swallows the words for they will not have any effect anyway, empty in meaning, devoid of effect, and gets up to pull one of the books from the shelves, one she has not touched in a while. There is no reason to, she knows every word in it by her twisted heart, but, perhaps – there is no perhaps. She is stalling again and looking for ways to keep her mind occupied and she hates that she does.

“Must be frustrating,” a smooth voice says, hot breath on her neck, hand wrapping around her waist, there is little she can do about her heartbeat stopping in her chest or her breath rushing out of her lungs as she freezes under the touch, “to have such a high intellect and not the power to match it.”

“Is it not equally frustrating to be so irritating at all times?” she asks, waiting for the inevitable dislike to set in so violently that it makes her ill, hoping her muscles will obey her own command again sooner.

Lilith laughs, the chuckle starting in her stomach, making its way up her chest; she does not want to feel it, be aware of it, she does not want to be in any capacity close to her, the least one physically. “You tell me.” Fingers dig into the fabric of her clothes. It is wrong, so very wrong, and she hates that it is not the only thing she can think.

She scoffs and frees herself, turning around to glare, bitter anger burning up her throat and she cannot quite quench it, cannot quite silence it, cannot quite get rid of it; anger is an unreasonable emotion she does not need. And yet, here it is, buried deep in her stomach, the old beast rears its head and bares its teeth.

“I did not ask you to be here,” she says, pushing down this feeling, too, she has become so good at suppressing all of them that she forgets their existence, “I did not ask to be part of your little game. Stop treating me like I did.”

She does not smile, simply watches her, expression serious for a moment before it is all amusement again, this damned amusement, as if everything is just so funny to her, as if all is just a game to her, so incredibly hilarious.

“A game?” she asks, tone of voice strangely serious. “I did not think I was playing a game.” A slender hand reaches out and finds her fingers, pulling them from the ancient cover of the book, heat seeping through the leather of her gloves.

“Now, let’s assume I’m honest for a moment-”

“I would say you were wasting your time,” she replies coldly, because cold is all she knows, being made out of ash and dust now.

“Let’s say I’m not,” Lilith returns, something tugging at the corners of her mouth, “and let’s say I know that you do lie-”

She grits her teeth; _of course_ she does.

“And let’s say that you _are_ a curious one, you’ve got me wondering, what does a woman like you have to hide?”

The answers is an easy one. “I know what your goal is,” Sacrilegia says.

“Oh?” Lilith asks and an eyebrow quirks in amusement. “Pray tell.”

“The answer is no,” she tells her with another glare.

The Queen of Hell rolls her eyes at her dramatically before she crosses her arms. “You’re so stubborn.”

“So are you,” she replies with a frown, placing her hand on the book again.

The demon sighs and, for some reason, she seems realer now – less like she exists on another plane that cannot perceived with eyes alone, something that has never been meant to be seen, she seems … more tangible. More human, if she has to use that word; truly, there is little human about her. Since she has learned angels concurred up a bi-pedaled appearance not to constantly strain or burn each other with their true forms, she has looked at them differently.

She breathes, trying to calm herself, trying to figure out how bad the situation currently is, only to realize that she is not entirely sure; there is something to it that makes her wonder, there is even more that does not make her wonder at all, just … she does not know. It feels as if she made a deal, and that is never a good thing when it comes to demons.

Eventually, she sits down again, book laying open in her lap, telling her nothing new. But it is a book and they always give her some sort of comfort, a strange kind, but who is she to judge? Everything about her is strange, too.

Lilith holds out a spoon to her, which she declines with a gesture of her hand. “I tolerate you,” she says, eyes scanning the page. “That does not mean that I trust you.”

“Do I have to compliment you again?” she asks, smile audible, and she hates that it is; she hates how this woman has already figured her out, despite her best efforts not to underestimate her.

“No,” she replies, glancing up in annoyance and pretending not to see the smug smile, “just give me the damn soon.”

“A pleasure,” she answers with a satisfied purr and hands it over; Sacrilegia gives the creation on top a skeptical glance, but she figures getting poisoned might be preferable to dealing with this mess for a prolonged period of time, so she eats.

The first thing she notices is the heat, seething through her entire body, and spices she has not tasted before burning on her tongue. It is nothing human, obviously. She has made a point of staying away from all demon food, for several reasons, yet, … it is not bad. Not entirely, at least, because all she tastes is fire, making her wonder if Lilith tastes like night or fire or both.

“And?” the Queen of Hell asks, tilting her head, strings of short red hair bouncing from her horns.

“If I did not know better, I would say it is edible fire,” she says.

“Curious,” she replies, tapping a long finger against her chin, “so you’re not a demon then. But it didn’t kill you either.”

“You would not have been so insistent, if you truly thought it would kill me,” Sacrilegia retorts, pointing the spoon at her in accusation.

“You wouldn’t have eaten it, if you truly thought I was going to harm you,” Lilith says and smiles.

“I’ve considered it,” she says, “and concluded that being poisoned would be preferable to dealing with you any further.”

“You can admit that you like me,” she answers and her eyes light up in amusement. “No need being so proud about it.”

“I thought you knew when I lied?” she replies, already having turned her attention back to the book, “so why should I bother lying?” This time, her answer is a noise that is neither quite a chuckle nor a scoff; the next couple of hours where she is busy browsing books again are spent with a demon right next to her, too curious in what she does.

* * *

Night returns and she, again, closes a book without having gotten any farther; it is not that she has expected she would but there is no denying that she had hoped … and there is no denying that she now has to deal with Lilith again and pretend it does not hurt her pride as much as it does. Perhaps it is about more than that, perhaps she does have problems with people on a general basis, especially if they insist so much on inserting themselves into her personal space.

She watches the sun sink between the buildings, vanishing eventually, darkness flooding the city, broken by artificial lights in every color imaginable. She misses the stars. She misses the pure sky and she misses the serenity that comes with it. There is nothing of it left here.

Leaning back, she scowls at the book, despite knowing that it is not responsible for her plight.

“Run out of ideas?” the Queen of Hell teases from the other side of the room, a sly smile on her lips, mocking her, because she seems to know just as well that there is not much left to try.

“No,” she replies with a glare, refusing to admit that she might soon enough. She has outwitted all kinds of creation, she can win this too. (Maybe she is too proud after all, too stuck up in her own ways, too convinced that she could bring the world to its knees, too convinced that there is nothing she could not achieve. Maybe. The difficult thing with all ambition is that you rarely know when to stop.)

“Then it’s just another stepping stone?” Lilith questions, still smiling a predator’s smile; she is waiting for her to back herself into a corner.

“Do you know how climbing works?” she asks in return, leaning back into her chair.

“If the rock slips from under your grip, you die?” the demon suggests, eyes glowing in the crimson red of blood.

“Sometimes, you realize the path you have taken leads nowhere and you have to track your steps back to find another one.”

“Don’t they mark out their path beforehand?” she asks, tapping a finger to her chin. “So that they don’t waste their energy going back and forth?”

“Humans do,” Sacrilegia replies, a bitter taste in her mouth; that is not the direction she has meant going and she is very much convinced that Lilith has derailed the metaphor on purpose just for the sake of it. Another reason why she dislikes company; there is power in numbers, but when you want to watch the whole world burn, you better set the fires yourself.

Sighing, she pushes herself up, sick of it, making her way towards the door, collecting her keys and jacket and shoes.

“So, where are you going this time?” the woman asks. She looks less human – there is a glow to her horns, from the jewelry like fire, her hair seems to have a deeper red, and her eyes are bright yellow, sharp teeth exposed by her smile.

“None of your business?” she suggests and crosses her arms. Someone seems hellbent on following her and she is not sure why: she figures that someone like her does not understand the concept of space but she also figures that she might does and uses that knowledge to drive people up the wall.

“Do you know how boring it is to be stuck here?” she asks, eyes settling on her in a way that does not make her quite uncomfortable yet.

“There is literally nothing keeping you from setting a foot outside my apartment,” she replies with a frown. It is the truth, is it not? Even if she had set up wards, none would be sufficient enough to keep the Queen of Hell imprisoned.

“But what I do without you?” Lilith drawls.

“The same things you have done before deciding to annoy me?” she suggests coolly.

“It all seems so dull when I could be around you,” she replies with a hum, red lips pulling into an alluring smile. They have the color of fresh blood. (And they would feel just as arm pressed against her throat, hungry on her mouth, and her eyes glaze over for a moment before she catches herself.)

“I am not your toy,” she replies, having enough of this weird little game she cannot seem to win, because it is played with ever changing rules so Lilith always stays on top. She seems to like that, in a lot of ways.

Sacrilegia silences the thought. This is also part of the game, waiting to see which of them will loose their patience first and it is not going to be here. She has been patient searching for a way to get into that damned Garden a second time, she can endure annoyance.

A hand wraps around her waist and pulls her close with frightening ease, fingers touch against the base of her.

“How about you show me around the city, hm?” the Queen of Hell asks, toying with a string of her hair.

Panic flares in her throat, because her skin feels all wrong, she is suddenly very much aware that her cells are made out of ash and dust and _death_ , and while she has made her peace with the fact that she is always going to be a half-dead woman, she has never made her peace with someone touching her. It feels like she did not do the spell right, like she might crumble, and the terror of death, of being dead, of just not existing anymore, becomes greater the second time around.

She winds herself out of warm, long fingers and escapes through the door, but Lilith catches up with her before it closes, gaze lingering.

“You really don’t like being touched,” she muses. “Why is that? There is nothing you have to be ashamed about.” Yet, she keeps her hands to herself.

“Not your concern?” Sacrilegia suggests; it is her very own concern.

Silence settles between them as they climb down the stairs. Night pools through every glass surface, dark and alluring and tainted like the city it fills, but when she glances at Lilith, all she can think is that it does not matter, because she is still very much at home in it, that she is still very much _night_ and the night is still very much _her_. The realization makes her head spin, makes her want to reach out and sink into it, loose herself in the allure and taint, because there is no point in pretending to be pure when she is a creature of Hell in all but her cells.

“It’s hideous,” the Queen of Hell muses, a few steps ahead of her, eyes as dark as the sky, occasionally lighting up with the lights of a stray plane crossing the fabric that spans the world, smog blurring the stars, the moon hiding behind a ghastly cloud full of chemicals.

“It is,” she replies and steps closer, hands shoved into the pockets of her jacket, “it is so very human.”

There is a snicker as she tilts back her head, horns glinting without a light source, and she wonders if she would cut her fingers if she were to run them along their curves and the pointed tip. Probably.

“That is true,” she says, looking at her, hair still short and as red as her lips, eyes having returned to a bright yellow; now, she is wearing a light pullover that has already slipped off her shoulder, exposing an elaborate design of lace and straps beneath and highlighting her breasts, a leather skirt barely covering half of her thighs and a pair of long boots, still leaving too much skin exposed. (It taunts her, her flawless soft skin, begging her to press into it and kiss it, run her fingers up, up, until she meets the heat.)

She turns away, to the city laying in front of them, yellow eyes studying her.

“Come on,” Lilith says and grabs her arm, dragging her along, but her grip is light enough that she could wind herself out of it, if she wanted.

The demon finds a fair – Sacrilegia has not known that there was one, but she would not be surprised to find out it has magically sprung into existence the second the woman next to her had decided she wanted one.

They wander between stray lights and fairy lights, traffic a distant thrum, and, at some point, their fingers intervene, not without an amused glance and heat seething through her gloves, causing her heart to beat faster in her chest.

Smells mix. Sweet and candid fruits, chemical sweets, cheap and fake guns, because this country loves its guns, giant stuffed animals, other stupid little games only humans can find amusing. They are all boring to her.

“Peculiar,” Lilith hums. No one seems to pay attention to the horns sprouting from her temples or the jewelry glittering around them or her at all; only the night seems to care, pushing up against her, darkening her shadow until it absorbs all light, and heightening every part of her that is not human: the horns and the sharpness of her eyes and the softness of her body, her eyes and teeth and tongue, her fingers and nails, the way she moves with graceful power and the way she holds her hand like a declaration.

“Do you want anything?” she asks.

Sacrilegia shakes her head, speechless for a moment. “It all tastes foul,” she says. “When you have tasted perfection, everything else pales.”

“It does, doesn’t it?” she replies. “It’s such a bother. Demons don’t need food, but sometimes I find myself missing it.” She sighs before a grin splits her face. “Give me a moment.”

She disappears into the crowd, along with the warmth that has been steadily traveling up her arm, leaving to suddenly feel cold and removed from the world where she has forced herself to find a place in.

Then, Lilith re-appears, a paper bag filled with sweet in her hands, which she holds out to her. She nearly reaches for it, before she remembers her gloves and withdraws her hand.

“You can just take them off,” the demon says, already holding a chocolate. “Or I could feed you.”

Sacrilegia glares. “I could,” she says, “but I will not.”

Another sigh, from chocolate stained lips, daring her to clean them. “Why do you resent your own skin so much?”

“For the same reason I dislike being touched,” she replies, hesitating for a moment. “It always feels like I will just fall apart.”

“Bodies usually don’t do that, unless I’m involved.”

“Usually,” she stresses, having shoved her hands back into her jacket, cold creeping into her bones, until the woman steps closer, holding out one of the sweets, expression soft enough that she believes she is not teasing her, not mocking her. It is not pity either. She is glad that it is not.

It melts in her mouth, sweet yet not rotting her teeth. It is not perfection but it gets close enough.

“It is good,” she says and manages a smile, for which she gets a genuine one in return.

They wander for a while. The first time she sees one of these games up close, she figures out they are ricked; the guns do not work properly, the tin cans are filled with weights.

“Do want me to win one for you?” Lilith asks.

“I can win them myself,” Sacrilegia replies without looking at her.

“I’m sure you can,” the demon says and smiles, “but it’s about the principle of the thing, don’t you agree?”

She frowns. “Are you trying to seduce me?”

“No need for trying, dear,” the woman says sweetly.

The bag is empty and, once more, Lilith disappears for a moment, leaving her stranded and watched and all at once aware that her victories are lonely ones; even if she attains all knowledge, she is alone. Eternity seems much longer now than it has before, when she thought herself so far from her goals.

The Queen of Hell reappears with a triumph-promising smile, holding what looks like an apple covered in even more chocolate. An amused smile tugs at the corners of her mouth; the forbidden fruit itself is not necessarily an apple, but if humanity intends to cling to this one in particular, she is not going to stop them.

She holds it between them, end tipping towards her like an invitation, so Sacrilegia places her hand above Lilith’s, heat seething back into her body at a moment’s notice and guides the apple to her mouth under hungry eyes, taking a gentle bite out of it.

The chocolate cracks, cold, and then she tastes the apple, sour in comparison, and, at last, caramel, soft, catching her by surprise, spilling over her lip. She attempts to stop it, already having leaned back and noticed her mistake too late, tongue darting out helplessly; a finger scoops it from her chin.

“You could have warned me,” she mutters, not terribly angry.

“I would have, if you hadn’t been so eager,” the woman retorts with a smile, hand settling on her waist. It still feels like her body might just fall apart. “We’re being watched.”

She hums in response. “There is still something on your lips,” she replies instead.

“Why don’t you kiss it off?” she suggests with a chuckle, so sure of herself and Sacrilegia – drunk in the moment, heat under her skin, sweetness in her mouth, so close to a perfection she can attain – leans forward, kissing her, except that it is not really a kiss: it is lips and tongues pushing against each other, gently, it is something that could have been a kiss, if they bothered, but they do not, so it is not one and they can pretend it never has been.

“I’m starting to think you might like me,” the demon hums, half an inch from her face, “that would be quite a problem for you, would it not?”

She laughs, rough and hoarse. “You do not even qualify as half a problem in my life.” She means it. Her problems come baring flaming sword and Heaven’s fury or great numbers of magicians thinking they are so much better than her, without realizing that a sharp mind is the most dangerous weapon of them all.

“That’s a relief,” Lilith returns and they keep eating a candid apple in the shadows of half-broken lights in a city full of toxins and humans, two beings so far removed from both of these things, two creatures who are not _really_ anything, two women longing for perfection far out of their reach.

“Let’s go,” the demon suggests, “before they decide to ruin it.”

“They are humans,” she replies as they make their way further into the dark, away from their little sanctuary, “they will find a way.”

Her reply comes in the form of a snort.

Buildings rise up around them, stark shadows against a starker sky; sometimes, there is light in a window, far away and yet close enough that she might touch it, close enough that she thinks she does not exist outside of this world and yet far enough that she cannot reach it.

The demon lingers at her side, arms brushing, a warning of sorts, but she needs no warning. She can feel the magic hanging readily in the air, drawn from the ground beneath her feet, she can see the movements around corners. She knows they are vastly outnumbered but numbers only account for so much.

A figure steps into the middle of the alley and they stop; her heartbeat calms, she reaches for the power lines beneath her feet, tangling her fingers into magic that barely listens to her, it is like coaxing a turtle permanently out of its shell: impossible without violence, and she would prefer not to be violent at all.

“I’ve told you to leave the city,” the person snarls, all black.

“And I have told you that I have not done anything,” Sacrilegia replies, spells at the tip of her tongue but she swallows them; she cannot throw the first stone, not because she is without sin – her sin stands next to her – but because she relies on her intellect first. Her physical skills are lacking.

“Then what is _that_?” They point an accusing finger, a dozen voices.

“I have a name,” Lilith says, cool anger in her voice, eyes so full of fire, light leaving traces in the air, “and I am a demon.” She bares her teeth, sharp and pointed. Now, she is as haunting as the darkest of nights, filled with a thousand horrors, something beyond comprehension, and yet, she feels the urge to reach out and sink her fingers into the fabric of her clothes and her nails into her skin until it is all she knows.

The angry voices screech as if they belonged to a Banshee, except that the only death they announce is their own.

“You’re ruining the city,” they say. She thinks. “By consulting with abdominal monsters.”

It is a far leap of faith to call demons that; they should see the angels burning down from their sky with their six wings and thousand eyes and mouths, disfigured bodies, if they have any at all, something only a twisted mind could come up with.

“I am not consulting with demons,” she says, steadily, “the demon is consulting with me.” It appears that this is not the right combination of words to defuse the situation, though she wonders if she has even tried – it does bring a burst of laughter from the woman next to her; then, spells rain down on them.

The barrier goes up in time, but it shakes and withers, there is not enough power to sustain it for long.

“I could help you, you know,” Lilith says, voice low, and a hand wraps around her waist from behind, fingers pressing against her ribs.

“I do not need your help,” she says, gritting her teeth until her jaws hurt so she can keep focusing on not getting crushed to death. Being so close to her is a major distraction.

“I know,” she replies, breath hot at her neck, “I’m sure you can defeat them, with time and your wits, but doesn’t that become tiring, exhausting yourself just for a few thugs? I could give you power, lend you mine, and you could wreak all the havoc you want.”

The old beats coils in her stomach and rears its head, the words are easy on her tongue, she is hungry for power, but she is not foolish enough to think it would come without a price.

“And what is in it for you?” The barrier cracks. Not much time left.

“The usual,” Lilith answers, lips trailing her neck in kiss-less kisses, all the way to her jawline. “You keep humoring me. I’ll get to see what you’re really like. I’m positive I’ll like the result.”

It does not seem too bad, that deal.

“Alright,” she says with a sigh, aware of the smile pressing against the back of her head. “What do I have to do?”

“Just keep standing there,” she muses, quiet, fingers moving up her ribs until the reach the space between the fifth and forth, her mouth pressing against her temple, a nail scratches along her throat and, after a brief moment of hesitation, she drops the walls she has held so firmly. She knows a thing or two about pacts and she knows this is not one.

The old beast wakes, a strange kind of power running through her veins, burning hot before it turns cold, before she makes it her own; it is dark and evil and whispers of all things she could do with spells that turn to dust from her mouth, how she could raise hell with all she knows, how she can reach deep beneath the earth and pluck whatever she needs from a great stream of energy.

It is thrilling and dizzying, like alcohol, clouding her mind and judgment. So many options she did not have before. So many ancient and destructive words. So many creatures of eternal darkness she can make do her bidding. And, she realizes, that, perhaps, this whole time she has been attempting to coax the wrong source of power; perhaps she should have tried all the dark and twisted, the night and the horrors, the blood and the bone. They all come so easily to her, as if they have been waiting.

She tips her head back against Lilith’s shoulder, euphoria replacing the adrenaline in her veins, her ambition getting the better of her.

“What does it feel like?” the demon asks, a hand brushing gently against her jaw, claws glinting in the light of magical projectiles.

A low chuckle bubbles out of her chest and she bares her teeth in a wide grin; it _is_ like being drunk. “It feels like it is the thing I have been missing my whole life,” she says, an eager smile pressing against her neck, teeth scraping her skin as she speaks.

“Go and test it out, darling,” she mutters, “I want to see how you make the world burn.”

Sacrilegia chuckles again, the old beast chuckles with her; there is no need to bury it now, when she can let it roam free. Worrying about the consequences of the hunger is something she can neglect for a while.

She steps forward and replaces the barrier with a force field that sends the blast flying back with a wink of her hand. Too easy. It is nearly boring. There are so many more spells, ready to be used, wanting to be used, having not been spoken for so many centuries until she dug them up and learned them and now-

The smoke clears and she finds herself facing several dozen righteous mages. Or magicians or whatever they call themselves. They are human or were once and thus do not compare to her.

They scream and yell, she does not even care to listen, simply smiling at them instead – a haunting smile, exposing teeth that are not quite right to them. Everything about her is not quite right to them.

They throw spells at her which she deflects with barely half a thought and a lazy motion of her hands, before she digs into the night and summons the horrors, the dead from the ground beneath, all the restless souls wanting war and craving chaos, she speaks binding incantations that fall from her lips like blood, she whispers to the steel and glass to twist into whatever she wants them to be.

Dead hands latch onto legs and ankles and tear living flesh from bones, ghosts nestle into minds and send them running, steel and glass crush and cut, the night reaches with its claws for those who still fight her, hurling words they have no greater understanding off; she could tear at the very fabric the world is made of and reform it.

Their leader is the last one standing, still all angry voices and she cannot help laughing. So pathetic. Humans are always so pathetic. They think they are brave and upstanding but in truth they are just arrogant and blinded.

The figure leaps at her. She summons her sword to her hand, dodging the attacks without any issue, it so all so easy now, she can see why people in power would fall for their pride. But she is not them.

In the end, she puts the blade through the misguided heart and watches the form crumble, blood staining the ground.

“Bravo,” Lilith says, mimicking applause.

Sacrilegia turns around with a mocking bow. She lets the feelings of power get the better of her, when she crosses the distance between them, and, in a swift motion, drops down to one knee to press a kiss to her hand.

“Getting cheeky, are you?” the demon asks, tilting her head upwards. “But you _do_ look good on your knees.”

“You only say that because you are thinking about how I would look eating you out,” she returns with a sly little smile, noting the way these yellow eyes light up. If she asks, she would probably say yes or maybe she would not say anything at all and dig her fingers into her thighs instead, but Lilith does not ask and she does not answer.

“You’ve been thinking about the same thing,” she muses. “Let’s go, before someone thinks we ought to be held responsible. I want to see what else you can do.”

She gets to her feet, an arm finding its way around her shoulders. “I’d love to,” she replies with a hum.

They return to her apartment, where the Queen of Hell angles herself into one of the armchairs and pulls her in, with her back to her chest, having swiped a bottle of deep red liquid from somewhere which they share between the two of them, while Sacrilegia conjures up every spell she knows, under fascinated watchful eyes and growing smiles pressed against her neck, a hunger passing through both of them.

“If I had known you’d be so much more pleasant to be around, I’d given you power much sooner,” she whispers eventually, her hand on her waist having inched lower and lower, causing heat to collect in her stomach.

“There is less to watch out for, when you do not have to live off scraps,” Sacrilegia replies, mouth stained with wine that is not really wine in the first place. “And it is easier to give in to the old beast and the hunger.”

The woman hums in response and they drift into silence, for a moment that could have been an eternity. “What is it that you want so badly?”

She considers, before she turns around to face Lilith, leaning over her; a leg hooks around her and brings them close, close enough that she takes a sharp breath. Distracting. All so distracting.

“I want to attain all knowledge,” she says, hands settling on her face. “I want to know every spell, everything that has ever existed, the workings of the universe and how to twist it.” The leather of her gloves bothers her, but the state of her own skin bothers her more. “What do you want?”

“Another taste of perfection,” Lilith muses, eyes not having moved from her face. “I lived in Eden, for a while. I want that paradise to myself.” She reaches up and cups her face, quite gently, and they hover inches from one another, so close, and yet so far away; the Queen of Hell leans in first, kissing her, lips hot and passionate and hungry, teeth digging into her bottom lip as she gasps for air, swallowing a moan. She is demanding and she demands control now, the upper hand. Sacrilegia looses her desire to fight her over it.

“I know where we can get a little taste of paradise,” she says, despite not sounding terribly interested, licking the blood from the tip of her chin, pushing down her sweater to get to the rest of it; a shudder passes through her, a hunger, the desire to hold her closer still and let herself be consumed.

“I am right here,” Sacrilegia replies, glancing at the woman from half-closed, wanting eyes, an eager hand pushing at her clothes before she stops herself.

“It’s funny,” she mutters, lips at her throat, fingers dipping lower, “you do taste a little like perfection.”

“As do you,” she returns and they kiss again, slower, hands wandering but never far enough for a decision.

“But you’ll still be here when the night ends,” Lilith concludes, “and I can taste you all you want.” She smiles and, suddenly, she is filled with so much want that it is unbearable. “But how often do you get the opportunity to tear an angel apart?”

“Not often,” she admits and thinks about her target.

“Exactly,” the demon muses and tugs away at her sweater again, sinking her teeth into her throat, bruising her skin as she sucks and nibbles at it, leaving similar marks on her way up, making her moan.

“More,” she says, neither quite demanding nor begging, as she tips back her head, “ _more_.”

Hungry lips reach her mouth and suffocate another moan, a hand tangles in her hair.

“Later,” Lilith says, the restraint written all over her, and Sacrilegia knows she just has to kiss her again and that restraint would melt away like it never existed.

“Is that a promise?” she asks with a smile.

“I swear,” she replied, eyes as full of desire as her own, “I want you, in every way possible, Sacrilegia, and I will have you.”

“If I let you,” she tells her and gets drunk on that moment of control, dragging her thumb down her throat to her collarbones, where she places a mark of her own, “and I will.” A hand roughly comes down on her hip, the other tenses in her hair and jerks her back, causing her to smile slyly.

“If you keep that up, I’ll have to fuck you right here and now,” she says with a growl in her voice that does little to hide her arousal, “which would be unfortunate, considering it would leave you with a terrible impression of my skill.”

“Terrible, indeed,” she agrees with sarcasm, “what would I think of you, if you did not torment me even in pleasure?”

“Very much so,” the woman says with a grin and gently pushes her from her lap. “Now, let’s commit a deeply blasphemous act.” Sacrilegia smiles at her. The beast smiles with her.

* * *

They walk the city, half-drunk without being drunk. Even the air feels different and magic sparks from her fingertips when she reaches out, an amused chuckle making its way out of her chest. So much to see, so much to do; she summons ghost lights at her hands that trail besides them for a while, under curious demon eyes, and she drinks in the city – a live giant, dark and full of little mischief and crime, full of sin. It is like an entirely different place, she senses the darkness from people’s minds and from wherever she walks.

It makes her rethink how she views humanity, so much secrets cluttering their minds, even if they are not aware of it. Fascinating. And it makes her understand why angels hate them so much; it is funny, because they are beings of love, but it seems even all love in the world cannot make them care about the flawed.

Lilith stays next to her, an arm wrapped around her waist, the heat of her skin burning through her clothes and her eyes never quite leaving her; they have settled on a bright yellow.

It is less about finding a lone angel than letting it find them; Sacrilegia figures the path of demonic magic is easy enough to follow for such a holy being and they are not trying to hide their traces, not this time.

Eventually, it descends from the pitch black sky from which the city has swallowed all light, the stars, the moon, the aircrafts that blink like misguided stars, all six wings and so bright it nearly blinds her, head obscured by several halos like a planet’s rings – it looks as if they choke it –, a limbless torso, lower body vanishing under floating robes, three sets of arms hovering in the air. It is nothing like humanity imagines them, it is nothing like their artistic paintings and portraits: true angels are terrifying beings beyond a simple mind’s ability to comprehend.

Even this one, which does not even occupy any significant rank, nearly scorches her eyes, if she looks for too long. (And she has been struck down by Metatron and she has opposed Michael and she is still not sure how she came to survive that encounter.)

They stop. The old beast in her stomach curls in excitement, she has never torn at an angel before despite all her violent dreams of doing so, of making just one of them unholy, staining it with the sins on her hands and the truthful curses from her mouth, of all the horrors she has prepared for that one.

Lilith smiles, dangerously.

The angel does not seem to notice. How should it, without eyes?

“You have no place here,” a disembodied voice says, right in their heads. “You disturb the living.”

“And what do you want to do about it?” Lilith asks with bared teeth, horns radiating darkness, the heat from her hand spiraling out of control; that must be what purgatory feels like, she thinks, even if it does not feel like purgatory at all.

“I will send you back where you belong,” it says, fire appearing in its hands – not a sword. After all, not all angels prefer swords. Another thing humanity has gotten wrong.

The woman’s smile grows, exposing sharp teeth, and the longer she looks at her, the less human she appears. The angel launches fire at them and they dodge, she marvels at how easy it is and the demon leaps forward, a lance in her hands.

Sacrilegia knows that she is playing, not even trying to kill it just yet, she just wants to have a little fun and it nearly makes her feel bad for the angel. Only nearly though.

She summons her sword and joins the dance, even though she does not take pleasure in torturing something that has no real chance of fighting back, but tonight it does not matter, because all she cares about is another blasphemous act, another _sacrilegious_ one, and since it is the thing she has been born to do and she has forgotten how it feels to taunt divinity, how it feels to have it seep into her skin and bones.

Blood like liquid fire stains the tip of her blade, dripping from it, burning into the ground. The angel makes a sound that no throat can ever produce, a high-pitched noise that cuts like glass into her ears, a thousand screaming voices, the same sound that announces floods and droughts.

Her ears ring, for a moment she thinks her drums have burst. Then she realizes it is not a cry of pain but a name, an angel’s name, in a language that would have burned right through her brain if she was any lesser of a being.

The angel descends, all fire, all light, all liquid golden eyes and flaming sword, only one pair of wings in this form but all of Heaven’s fury, all of the eons’ old rage of an almighty omniscient god. With him comes his personal triad: the better word for them is servants, they have no agenda except to serve him.

The archangel regards their victim briefly, with as much discern as he has for everyone else; even to Lilith he pays little more attention than a scoff, before his gaze settles on her, burning with wrath and an unholy hunger for revenge.

Sacrilegia smiles at him pleasantly, arrogantly. She has stained him once – no, he has stained himself, in his pride and desperate need to proof that he is indeed the perfect son, bending himself over backwards to fulfill expectations that should mean nothing to him. He is but a mindless soldier without command and the Council does not have good demands.

“I should strike you down where you stand,” he snarls, having trouble keeping his voice at bay.

“Go ahead and try,” she tells him with a smile full of non-human teeth, “we will see how that goes.” She is still made out of dust and ash and _death_ , and this time she bathes in it, bathes in his contempt. He has committed the greatest sin against her. She will have her vengeance. One day.

“Terrible, is it not?” she continues, wiping the blood from her sword, “to know what you cannot touch me.” She looks at him, watching him seethe. “Terrible indeed. The greatest archangel, the second favorite son, and there is nothing you can do to kill me.” She laughs, laughs at him, at how ridiculous he is, she laughs at the irony of the situation. She laughs at God, for even he cannot kill her. She knows how to escape death, after all.

Flames bursts from his human form and it wavers, as if he is about to give it up, forgetting that he would leave the charred corpse of the world in his wake – he seems harmless, nearly, chocolate hair and dark skin and white clothes, all in all the angel humanity imagines him to be, but she knows he harbors an ancient beast too, hungry for blood and war. He loathes to admit that he does.

His wings flare. Oh, she has forgotten the joy of antagonizing him, spurring him into a fit of rage, making him forget his composure. It is not that he looks better angered, he is a man and men never look good, it is that she is repaying what he has done to her slowly, with interest, until the day he slips up and she can go about tearing his feathers and crushing his halo.

“You are already dead anyway,” he hisses under his breath.

“I suppose that is the easier fate between both of us,” she says with a sly smile, “you are without orders, without the God you have been created to worship, left behind to watch and aid beings that you hate – that must be worse than death. Or is it, Michael? Do tell me. I know you despise humans; does that put you on par with your discarded brother, Lucifer?”

He launches forward with an incomprehensible noise, something enraged and hurt, _like a wounded animal_ , and he roars at the thought she has deliberately let through, sword aiming for her chest.

She dodges nimbly with a chuckle, drawing from the power of the night and darkness. “You deserve all that is coming,” she tells him sweetly as he lashes out against her.

Despite bringing her sword up in time, Lilith blocks the blow for her, a cruel smile curving her lips.

“Stand aside,” he snarls. “This is not your business.”

“But it is,” Lilith replies cheerfully. “And I’d love to get involved.”

Sacrilegia feels a smile of her own tug up on the corners of her mouth as she twists the fabric of reality and plucks from the night, weaving both into her spells.

The realization darts across his face, followed by more anger; it is all he knows – anger, anger, anger. It is all he consists of, all that keeps his fire burning: if he stops being angry, will he wither away and fade out of existence, rupturing Heaven like a dying star? Perhaps. She will kill him first, though.

Michael makes a sound like fire from his throat and his servants leap into action alongside him.

She rains down destruction and twisted darkness on them, all so terribly easy now, it is like breathing, and she cannot help but think that this is what she should have had from the day she took her first breath; the power comes without hesitation, from the depths of Hell and the darkest shadows, from everything ancient and full of hunger like herself.

Sacrilegia launches an orb of pure black. It hits the arm of one of the servants and eats it, spreading so quickly – he cuts off the limb before he can be fully devoured, blood pouring endlessly from the wound. She sinks her blade into his leg, laced with the night, and sends him crumbling.

Another one swings at her with an axe. A blast tears through one of his wings and his left side, intestines spilling as he coughs up blood. Interesting, that they go so far to mimic a human.

She is left to face the last of them, a woman with fair hair and eyes. The Queen of Hell keeps the archangel busy.

“I have no quarrel with you,” she tells the angel, “except for the fact that you serve this man.”

“Keep your sympathies,” she replies coolly. “Even if I was not bound, I could never forgive you for your sacrilegious acts.”

She manages half a smile. “Why, I would not hesitate to do them all again,” she says, whirling out of range from a bolt of light, drawing a barrier around herself. Then she leaps from the night, separating both of her legs from above her knees.

“My understandings,” she muses, “from one woman to another.” There is no anger from this one, no disgust, no disdain.

“Allying with demons,” Michael says, a thousand times with a thousand mouths that exist on a thousand other planes, “I thought you held yourself to higher standards, abomination.”

“Do not lecture me on lowly behavior, Michael,” she returns and points her sword at him, “for you have sunken lower than I ever could.” He flings pure light at her, hot and white, and she withdraws to the safety of the shadows.

“Beware that the day where I will hold enough power to triumph above you is fast approaching,” she tells him, retaliating with an attack of her own, willing the concrete to do her bidding.

It is a quick fight, too quick to follow with eyes alone, too quick to last – ultimately cut short by something tearing through her side.

The first thing she feels is not pain, since all pain pales compared to what she has experienced; the first thing she feels is how her skin starts crumbling and falling away, ash and dust, running like sand through her fingers.

Then, it stings, a sharp stabbing sensation, which seems logical. There is a sword poking out of her side.

How ironic, she thinks, that it is not a powerful adversary that is her downfall this time – it is not her downfall at all, she knows how to safe herself, but, for a moment, a fraction of a second, she just stands there and looks down on the weapon in her body and watches her skin and muscles and organs and clothes turn to dust, and all that she can think is that it is a terrible way to suffer, _again_ , because, after all, she is too proud and it has come back to bite her.

Funny, how she thought herself to be better.

The spell falls from her lips like poison, in a language that erodes her vocal chords and tongue until blood collects in her throat and drips from her nose; a language never meant to be spoken by anyone that is not native to it, but she does it anyway because it will not kill her, even though that is the best she can say about it.

She tugs at the night and the horrors beneath her feet, the deep dark power buried in the earth to sustain the spell, repeating the same words over and over again – a mantra, to keep her alive, willing ash and dust to reform her body, dancing around death when it reaches for her, willing the workings of the universe to work in her favor.

Resurrection has been easier. She did not have to keep herself alive, she just had to prepare. This … this is different. Excruciating. It makes her whole body feel so very fickle and fragile.

Sacrilegia closes her fingers around the blade with a hiss, pulling it out of her side and angel hands – it digs into the leather of her gloves and the palm of her hand but it does not stop her from uttering these words, it cannot – before it clutters to the ground and she turns to face the being they have tormented earlier.

It makes a sound she cannot place, something between a battle cry and begging for help, as she sinks her own sword into its chest; the darkness devours it from there on. It falls apart, collapsing in on itself. They die like stars, after all, there is a beauty in their deaths, the strange kind, because death is permanent and beauty is not.

It knocks her off her feet, yet, she keeps muttering, even when her breathing becomes unsteady and one of her lungs falls away; rebuilding is a slow process. Doable but slow and painful all the while and she has to keep her fear in check.

She expects a sword to her back or Michael’s voice to mock her. Nothing. Eerie silence. Most of her muscles do not exist anymore, her ears are ringing with last words she can never hope to comprehend.

Lilith crouches down in front of her, hands tilting up her head, and she does not know what is more frightening – the sheer concern or that she seems to care; she wants to ask, but she knows no other words than those that hurt her throat now, that make her bleed and ache, and the Queen of Hell seems to understand.

Her touch is electric and so full of power it makes her head dizzy. Only then she realizes that she is lending her even more, so much that it threatens to tear her apart because it strains her body so much.

One of her hands settles on her side, as if to support her, but it goes right through, covered in dust. Yellow eyes widen, briefly, before she pulls her closer.

“I will not let you die,” she says softly and Sacrilegia feels a laugh bubble up in her chest, bitter and ironic. Instead, half her lung deflates, and she keeps at her mantra, drawing from the night and horror and universe and Lilith, willing it all to keep her alive. They do, just not well.

Blood keeps pouring from her mouth and nose and her throat aches so badly and she still fears her body might just return to the ash it has been, it is nothing solid, it takes much more time than she can spare – seconds become hours. An eternity passes when it has not.

She can breathe again, eventually. When she touches her side, it is solid flesh, for as much as one like her can have.

Lilith presses a hand against her bare skin, warm, so very warm, sending heat shivering through her, and she wants nothing more to get lost in it, bury herself in it, because she has nearly died again and life still holds so much for her.

The demon scoops her up as if she weighs nothing at all, without the smug smile she has come to expect, without the air of arrogance but instead unbelievable concern.

She blinks. Night all around them, eternal dark, buildings high and human and swallowed starts, the taste of an angel’s death in the air and the taste of fiery blood on her tongue. She blinks again. Her apartment, a little sanctuary, clean of all heavenly and hellish influence, save for the woman who holds her so close she wishes it could be eternal too.

Gently, she puts her down on the bed, so unusual for her, and she settles next to her, still all riled up, eyes leaving traces of light and horns emitting darkness. She pushes strings of her from her face, fingers leaving a trail of heat.

Sacrilegia still keeps muttering, until she figures it is as good as it can get and then she falls silent, waiting for her throat and mouth to heal, the blood stuck on her face uncomfortable, as she knows that it looks unlike blood – it must be nearly black. Like her hair has turned, like her skin has turned gray.

“I was careless,” the demon muses, dragging her fingers through her hair.

“As was I,” she replies and lets the exhaustion sink in. “But I survived.”

Lilith hums in response and all but curls around her, still sitting, somehow. “And how did you do that?” she asks, curious but not as intrusive as she has been before.

She weighs her options for a moment; the truth is a dangerous thing and the old beast hisses at the thought of revealing it but what does it matter? Lilith is smart enough to figure it out herself, if she cares enough, and she suspects she does.

“I did tell you I have an ambition,” she begins, eyes locked to these yellow ones. “I want to know everything.” She pauses, fingers still tangled in her hair. “And so, I devised a plan, shortly after my creation, to sneak into Eden and devour forbidden fruits.” Lilith smiles at that. “I did manage to enter the Garden and I did manage to gather a few fruits but not the most important one before I was found out. I escaped,” she cannot help her voice turning bitter, “but I was eventually struck down by Metatron, barely after I had finished prepared a ritual to revive myself.”

“That was you?” the woman asks with something close to a fond expression, “I always wondered. Bravo.”

“Since then,” she says, “my body is composed of ash and dust, mostly. I live. Injuries become difficult to deal with though.”

“Your goal still stands?”

“Yes,” she says. “I still intend to eat that fruit. And I intent to gather power to kill Michael.”

“Why him?” Her fingers dart along the base of her neck. “He did not strike you down.”

“No,” she says. Her voice grows quiet. “I harbor no ill feelings for that.” She swallows, wondering if she can speak it at all. “But Michael has committed the greatest crime a man can ever commit against me.”

Lilith’s brows furrow. “Which crime?” she asks, tension already present.

“Is it not the same crime Adam intended to commit against you when you refused to abide by his rules?” she questions softly and reaches out, gloved fingers touching her jaw. “When you refused to be less then equal?”

She grows still, practically freezes. Anger explodes from her, a spark of power that presses the air out of her lungs, heat burrows into her like a sword, from the tips of her fingers to her chest. Night spills into the room, rendering her blind for a moment. It is calming to know she shares the same rage.

“He did _what_.” She is not asking.

“He has become so wrapped up in the idea of being perfect that he has lost his ideals,” Sacrilegia says as she pushes herself into a sitting position. “He is but a puppet and the Council demands, they have become his deal, their expectations his perfection. They expected him to be seduced so badly he forgot he could be anything but that.”

The Queen of Hell still looks like she will set out right at this moment, bring Heaven tumbling down and drag him before her, so she can do whatever she wants with him. The idea is smoothing, too.

She reaches out and trails her fingers along her jaw, to the base of her neck, placing a gentle kiss on her chin, working her way up to unmoved lips. “Save your anger,” she tells her. “I find comfort in knowing that you would rip Heaven open to get him for me, but his death means nothing if I cannot make it happen myself.” Another kiss. “I will get him, one day, and I will tear out every of his feathers and crush his halo in the palm of my hand and I will make sure he has been an angel for the longest of time, but, until then, I repay his crimes with interest. See, he is stained now and I can remind him at every turn of chance that we meet that he is and that he cannot wash himself clean.”

“It is still too kind,” Lilith muses, pressing a kiss to her temple and then another and then another.

“If I could drag his stained and unholy body before his god, I would,” she says.

“Yes,” she breathes, eager, before her eyes meet her own again, a hand on her chin as she presses a kiss to her mouth, soft and gentle and slow and yet so full of passion that a moan escapes her, causing her to get pulled in closer, so close that she can feel another heartbeat besides her own. All she knows is want and need and desire and the woman to answer it all is right here.

The demon draws down the neck of her pullover, trailing her kisses to the bruise she has left. Her tongue flicks over her skin, nearly apologetic, before she looks at her again, so close she can make out speckles of red in her eyes.

Sacrilegia’s breathing has turned heavy by now, her thoughts leave her when she considers the words she might speak.

Lilith runs a finger along the dried blood and then it is no more. “That’s better, isn’t it?” she mutters, barely an inch from her face, expression mirroring the very same hunger that has settled in her stomach.

They stay silent for a moment.

“I have an offer for you,” the woman says then, a hand settling on her waist and the other cupping her face.

“Yes?” she asks, not sure what to expect.

“You’re awfully intelligent,” she replies, “and smart and clever and you’re good at everything you do, so I was wondering if you would be interested in coming to Hell with me.”

“As what?” She is bracing herself, out of habit.

“Voice of reason,” she suggests with a tilt of her head. “Advisor. Whatever.” She presses a teethed kiss to her throat. “Under me, of course. I’d make sure you’re well treated.”

“Your real reason, I presume, is that you would get bored without me,” Sacrilegia concludes.

“Yes,” she replies and laughs. “So terribly bored. Do you know how hard it is to get out of Hell? I wouldn’t be able to see you as often as I wanted.”

“Selfish.”

“As are you,” Lilith says, smiling against her throat.

“And what tells me that I would not end up being a discarded toy?” she asks and hates that she does.

“Because there is nothing about you I could ever discard or grow tired of,” she says, sweet words from a demon’s mouth and, despite her hunger, she is inclined to decline because she does not need another constant reminder of a mistake she has made a long time ago when she ends up being stuck in Hell.

“You’re not believing me,” she continues with a sigh. “Understandable yet very much frustrating.”

“How would you prove it?” Sacrilegia asks, a part of her hoping that she can be convinced because she does want _this_ , whatever it is, but she has lived for too long to be anything else but cautious.

“What proof would be enough?” she returns. “I can’t hope to gain trust you don’t have.”

“And I cannot hope to give something I do not have,” she replies, ache bitter in her mouth.

A half-mocking smile tips Lilith’s head to the side. “A kiss?” she suggests. “Humans do that, don’t they? Put all their emotions into one kiss and hope it’s enough?”

“What if it is not?” she asks, fear worming its way into her brain.

“I kiss you,” she replies quietly, “and we’ll work from there, yes?”

“Then kiss me,” Sacrilegia muses in a low voice, “and see if you can make me believe.”

A thumb scraps against her ribs, pressing into her skin, another hand settles against the base of her skull and then she kisses her, deep and hungry and full of want and desire but there is also determination to it, a little taste of perfection and fire, night and darkness and battle, and, beneath it all, something softer, unveiled just for her.

She wonders, does she taste bitter and ironic, like ash and dust and faded perfection, lonely and hurt and desperate to believe, tortured by her own sense of logic?

She wonders but she gets lost between the heat of her skin and her hands and lips, between her tongue and breath, inching closer until there is no more space between them, drinking it all in until her head feels dizzy and pleasure lazily drips through her veins. No more thought, no more logic. She is sick of it anyway.

They part, silently, for the fraction of a second.

“No,” she mutters when Lilith attempts to speak. “No more for now.”

“Are you sure you want to do this?” she asks, hands still yet trembling with the need to move. She has been holding herself back.

“Is lust not your area of expertise?” she asks in return, in lack of better words.

“It is,” she says, “and I am well aware of all the things you want to do to me and all the things you want me to do to you and I’ll gladly oblige when you tell me the truth.”

“I’m not made out of glass,” she replies with a low growl. “You do not need to treat me like I am.”

The demon smiles a dangerous hungry smile. “Then tell me,” she whispers, “tell me the truth of what you want.”

“I want to sleep with you right now and right here,” she says, heat pooling in her stomach and between her legs, “and I want you to sleep with me.”

“And, if I’m good enough, you’ll consider yourself convinced?” Lilith practically purrs with excitement.

“I will consider myself pleased,” she returns, towering over her in her current position, a thrill rushing through her veins at the temporary control.

“Oh, I’m sure you will,” she returns with a rough laugh and they kiss again, more viciously, more hungrily, hands wandering all over her body, leaving hot trails in their wake, on her clothes and beneath, busy exploring but never going far enough to cause more than growing pleasure that nearly consumes all of her mind.

Her own hands dart along naked shoulders and jewelry, down her sides, until they come to rest on the skirt that stretches as if to taunt her over her thighs.

Lilith pauses, lips pressed to her throat. “I’d love to see you on your knees,” she whispers, and it nearly undoes her. “Or, do you want me to say, get down on your knees and eat me out?” The smile is warm against her skin. “Do tell me.”

“I wish I could,” she replies and her breath shudders.

Another smile and they untangle. The Queen of Hell sits at the edge of the bed.

She sinks to the floor, down on her knees, placing her hands on her thighs, feeling the heat through her gloves – she has yet to take them off, she realizes; she glances at the woman, sly smile on her lips.

“Why so hesitant?” she asks, tangling a hand into her hair and nudging her forward, spreading her legs. The skirt rides up just a little, too tightly clinging to her form to expose much more than it already does, and she decides to bother with the boots first, pulling them from her legs and covering the inside of her thighs with soft and gentle kisses, slowly, until she reaches the leather, untying the string that holds it together and marveling at how it comes undone, falling open.

She edges closer, hands urging her legs to spread wider, still pressing kisses to her skin, closer and closer.

“It’s considered rude not to keep people waiting,” Lilith reminds her.

“It is also considered rude not to pay respects to what is holy,” she muses, making direct eye content with her, “and not to worship it.”

“Then go ahead,” the woman tells her, breath noticeably short and voice lower, “worship me, if you desire it so much.”

“You have no idea how much I do,” she answers, tongue darting into the heat and wetness. The first taste is something she can only describe as perfection, the height of creation, and she buries her mouth in it, finding her clit and licking it.

The first moan from her lips has something divine and holy. She means it without mockery; there is something divine about the way her body arches into her touch and in the way her hips rock forward, in the way her fingers dig deeper into her hair in a silent beg, in the way her thighs close around her, in the way it falls from her lips, unafraid and confident, true and genuine, the pleasure no mistake. It is what she worships, the unafraid and confident woman, true and genuine at the core; now, she worships Lilith as her goddess even though religion is the last thing on her mind, she worships her as a woman herself, she worships her as someone hungry, she worships her as lover.

“ _Yes_ ,” Lilith says between a moan and another needy noise of pleasure from her throat, spurring her to enhance her efforts, dropping her mouth lower to push her tongue inside, slightly curling it upwards, hearing the appreciation she needs to continue. Her body keeps arching towards her touch, inching closer and closer until she can barely breathe, mouth filled with the taste of paradise, nose buried in the very same, and she drinks it all in until she is dizzy from it.

There is a tug at her head and the woman releases her, despite still being so full of pleasure and so far from climax, urging her to reach up and kiss her and she happily obliges.

“I suppose I do now know what paradise truly tastes like,” Sacrilegia muses when they part, trailing a finger down her neck and the curve of her shoulder.

“Compliments get you nowhere with me, usually,” the Queen of Hell replies with a raised eyebrow.

“I mean it,” she says softly and smiles, “you are the kind of woman I would not mind worshiping.” Her hands slip up her thighs, greeted by a shudder of excitement.

At first, there is no reply. Then, a hand tilts her head up by her chin. “If you were anyone else, I’d think you were mocking me,” she says but the look in her eyes betrays her.

“But I am not,” she answers, “so let me show you that I mean every word that I say.”

Nails dig into her skin and a thumb rests on her lips, as if to shut her up momentarily, and Sacrilegia presses a kiss against it. “You make it very difficult not to just fuck you until you don’t know any other word but my name.”

She smiles smugly and, instead of speaking, flicks her tongue around her thumb, in very much the same way she has done earlier – a tremble goes through the woman’s legs in pleasant memory, before Lilith pulls her up on her lap so that she is straddling her, heat pressing through the fabric of her pants. Is it her own?

“You’re still wearing too many clothes,” she determines, looking at her as if to decide where to start.

She bites the tip off one of her gloves, drawing it off, hungry eyes taking in the exposed skin. The Queen of Hell showers it with kisses, before, with barely a moment’s notice, she wraps her mouth around her index and middle finger, swirling her tongue around them, too long and split, causing her to moan when she imagines what that tongue would do between her legs.

Still, she manages to take off the other one, despite being severely distracted, then finding herself pressed into the mattress, air vanished from her lungs, a demon kneeling over her, panting, two eager hands tearing at her shirt.

They take it off and discard it to somewhere, lips coming down to kiss her almost immediately, while fingers dart along her skin, up her sides and ribs, kisses feather down her throat and collarbones until they reach her breasts – a hot mouth settles over one of them, the sensation alone making her moan and arch into it, the way she works both nipples at the same time nearly too much to handle. She tangles a hand in short red hair, helplessly, gasping her name as a smile spreads against her skin.

A surprised sound comes out of her throat when she feels the scrap of sharp teeth, the hand on her hip bruising her skin, so tightly she holds her, as her mouth trails lower and lower, growing hesitant.

“Do you want me to beg?” Sacrilegia muses.

“Soon, perhaps,” she says and sits up, “but I have another proposal to make: let’s get equal. An orgasm for an orgasm.”

“You yet have to,” she replies with a frown. Barely a second later, she finds herself on top again, the rush of being in control going through her body.

“It’s a little selfish to want to go first,” Lilith says from under her, rocking her hips upwards, “but I’m afraid the moment I get you to orgasm, it’ll be all I’m interested in.”

“Do I not get a say?” she asks. “What if I want to hear you climax again and again?”

The Queen of Hell smiles. “You will, if you still can,” she says, “but imagine all the pleasure I could make you feel, the way I could make your whole body so sensitive that every touch feels like it might undo you and now _imagine_ what it would actually feel like to have me go down on you with my tongue and fingers. Do you not want that?”

A whimper escapes from her throat, nearly begging, as a brief impression pops into her head, certainly not only on her own accord. “What if I want the same for you?” she questions. “If I want these divine sounds from your mouth to drive me insane, over and over again?”

“Cheeky,” Lilith scolds her but her smile says else, “and so demanding.”

“Do you want me to order you?” Sacrilegia asks in amusement, hand trailing down between them, a finger pressing up against her clit and rubbing it, startling a long moan out of her. “Or do you want me to ask nicely?”

Her body arches towards her, sheets growing wet. “Fine,” she says, hunger speaking from her. “It’s a deal then.”

“And who would I be not to honor our deals?” she asks with a sly smile and brings her finger to her mouth, licking it clean for another little taste of paradise.

The woman watches her, fascinated, and Sacrilegia hooks her fingers around the end of her pullover, attempting to take it off. It gets tangled in the horns and she finds herself grow impatient at it, until it is _finally_ gone, and she marvels at the sight of smooth skin beneath.

She traces the lines of her bra with her hands and kisses, slowly undoing it before carelessly tossing it aside, cupping one of her breasts. It fits nicely, round and full, but she can still close her fingers around it.

Taking her time again, she showers her breasts in kisses, fingers pinching her nipples and mouth worshiping them just as well, forcing herself not to get ahead of herself as nails dig into her back.

Her free hand wanders down, feeling the way her muscles curve under her touch, the wetness and the heat, before she slips one finger inside of her, curling it upwards. Her thumb presses against her clit. They find a mutual rhythm almost instantly, and her mouth lands on her other breast as she inserts another finger, moans and gasps filling the air.

“Please,” Lilith says.

Sacrilegia simply smiles sweetly as she stops moving entirely, earning herself a frustrated sound in return.

“Do you want me to beg?” the woman asks.

“I’d like to see you try,” she replies smugly.

“Please,” she repeats, mouth pinker than a second earlier, teeth biting down on her bottom lip. “Please fuck me. Please use your mouth and lick me, please use your fingers. Please don’t stop. I’ll do anything.” She even produces a small whine. So convincing.

“Anything?” she asks, voice growing rough on her.

“Anything,” Lilith breathes, suddenly bringing up her knee to press between her own legs, moving it back and forth.

She inhales sharply, body trembling from the sudden wave of pleasure, just enough to render her incapable of moving for a moment.

“Now,” she continues cheerfully, “fuck me and don’t you dare stopping until I tell you to. Is that clear?”

“Yes,” she says, swallowing, before she skirts back, legs opening wide in front of her. She settles her mouth on her clit again, inserting two fingers this time, while the other hand attempts holding her hip in place – one hand tangles in her hair, nudging her forward as her hips roll closer, while the other caresses her own breast as Sacrilegia works her closer and closer to climax, soon taking a third finger, curling all of them upwards, sucking and licking.

The tremble starts in her fingers and builds up throughout her entire body, hips arch upwards, she cannot breathe. The most holy sound she has ever heard tumbles from her lips: a loud full moan, followed by a gasp and her name and then, when she does not stop because Lilith has not told her to, what sound like a contained scream, body sensitive and barely recovered from the first high. Wetness spills over her fingers and hand, into her mouth, and she drinks it up, hungry for it.

“Fuck,” the woman mutters, out of breath, a sharp noise coming next. “Stop.”

She does, not without a smile.

“Repayment,” she simply says and kisses her, licking her own taste off her chin and lips.

She finds herself on her back again, hands already half-way done opening her pants and pulling them off so effortlessly she barely notices. Fingers trail along her legs and push them open before she pauses, yellow eyes looking at her.

“I could beg,” she suggests.

“No need,” Lilith says with a soft smile and settles in front of her crotch, revealing what her tongue feels like: it is cold, at first, heat following immediately after as it finds her clit, wet and strangely rough, making her jerk her hips before they get pushed down again. She starts licking her, slowly, to get her used to the sensation, then sucking, bringing in just a bit of teeth, until she relaxes. The split ends of her tongue wrap around her clit and push against it.

The moan is loud, and the pleasure shakes her entire body, a grin noticeable against her skin before her mouth moves lower, tongue inside of her, both ends teasing the sensitive spot.

She rocks into the touch and Lilith lets her, briefly.

“So needy,” she moves as she leans back, “well, I have been keeping you waiting.”

“You have not been any less needy,” she replies and earns a grin as a thumb circles over her clit.

“No,” she hums in response, “but I do wonder how wet I can get you with all the things I have yet to do.” She shudders, and Lilith goes down on her again, tongue inside of her, eating her out like her life depends on it, one hand stroking the inside of her thigh and the other her breasts, before making sure her hips do not rock too much.

Moans and gasps grow frequent. Eventually, she reaches down and tangles a hand into her red hair, urging her forward, and the woman obliges, doubling her efforts. The pleasure builds up until she cannot stand it anymore; then it is her tongue on her clit again and she is three fingers deep inside of her and Sacrilegia is silently begging and begging and begging.

The tremble starts in her arched back, spreading to her fingers and toes as the climax rushes through her, the only sound from her lips Lilith’s name, moaned and gasped and begged, but she gives her the very same treatment, keeping at her own worship until a second climax rolls through her, leaving her covered in sweat and completely out of breath.

Only then she stops and looks at her, smiling, satisfied, kissing her, placing two hands besides her head. “So many things to do,” she mutters, “so little time.”

“There is nothing stopping you from doing them anyway,” she whispers against her lips.

“But there is,” the Queen of Hell says. “This is the human world. Time flows so quickly here, and I can draw pleasure out for a very long time. Do you consider yourself pleased yet?”

“You nearly make me think you care about me,” she replies, not realizing how much she wishes she did until she says it.

“I do,” Lilith says, and she knows that she means it.

Sacrilegia hesitates for a moment before she leans forward, kissing her, gently, slowly, full of feelings that are neither hunger nor want. “Is that a suitable answer?”

“Mh,” she says, trailing a finger down her throat to where she has left a bruise, “it’s good enough. But I think you’ll have to say my name a couple more times. For example, while I make sure you’re incapable of saying anything else.”

“As often as you say mine,” she replies.

“Good,” she mutters, sitting up, positioning herself in front of her as she lifts one of her legs, pushing their hips together. The touch alone fills her with enough pleasure that she thinks she might just climax. The woman smiles and starts moving, both of them quickly falling into a steady rhythm of back and forth, moaning and gasping, one orgasm following the next when she has barely covered until all she knows is her lover’s name, begging and asking and wanting, for a little eternity that leaves them both sweaty and sensitive and spent, until the night dissolves and they curl up together, fitting so neatly together as if they were meant to be.


End file.
